


centuries, turning (and the threat of a good time)

by Spacedog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Birthday Smut, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Deepthroating, Explicit Sexual Content, Gift Fic, M/M, Titfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 04:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10209737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacedog/pseuds/Spacedog
Summary: bucky looks good for a man his age. steve lets him know it.or: it's bucky's one-hundredth birthday, and he'll do what hedamn well pleases.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [midnightbluemoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightbluemoose/gifts).



> my beefy bucky birthday swap gift!! the prompt was wanted bottom!bucky. i might have gotten carried away when left to my own devices.
> 
> as a fandom, we talk a lot about chris evan’s amazing chest, but [sebastian stan has a truly _fantastic_ set of pecs on him](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/post/156966260992/dienaziscum-besafesteve-sheisraging). so, titfucking. i hope this fill does it justice.

At ten in the morning—all but afternoon, for old men who spent their youth getting up at the crack of dawn—Steve pads into his and Bucky’s shared bedroom on soft, catlike steps. Trailing him is the smell of freshly-made breakfast—eggs, toast, bacon, and fresh coffee. Enough for an army, or for two supersoldiers on a particularly special morning. And this morning is more than special. It’s a landmark. It’s _history._

It’s March tenth, and Bucky is turning one-hundred years old.

Gently, Steve brushes a lock of hair off Bucky’s forehead, leaving a feather-light kiss on his temple. It’s always an awe to see him like this, asleep and at peace. In spite of everything, in spite of all the horrors and torture and heartache, Bucky looks young and soft—like he isn’t carrying with him the weight of a century.

“Mm,” Bucky mumbles, instincts sharp as ever, even in a place he’s safe; even in his sleep. He blinks awake, his gaze unfocused and still half-tired. It takes a few seconds, but he looks at Steve, finally having shaken off the last dregs of sleep, and he smiles, soft and ever-warm, like the early March sun. “Morning.”

“Morning, old man,” Steve says, and Bucky clocks him, playfully, softly, grinning the entire time he does. Steve loves the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. He could get lost in Bucky’s laugh for ages.

“Morning, jerk,” Bucky says, rubbing his eyes. “What smells good?”

“Made breakfast. It’s in the kitchen when you’re ready for it. Or I could bring it in here for you, if you’re feeling breakfast in bed.”

“Nah. I shouldn’t. S’much as I want to, I shouldn’t,” Bucky says, pecking Steve on the cheek. “Thanks for offering, though.”

“Sure?” Steve asks. “It’s your birthday.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Crumbs on the linens, Rogers. Not worth it.”

"Alright," Steve says, taking Bucky by the hands, “Let’s go, then. Don’t want it to get cold.”

They make their way up and out of bed together, side-by-side, moving in step together like clockwork—like they had in a smaller space, in a different version of this life, more than seventy years ago. Together, they set they set the table, large enough for four, but only ever used for two. With the late-morning light streaming in, bright and picturesque, they sit at their kitchen table, facing one another—Bucky, in nothing but his tight little boxer briefs; Steve, in an old pair of pajamas and a hoodie—and they dig into the spread, falling into a quiet, familiar reprieve. Not out of awkwardness; not out of lack of things to say, but out of comfortable familiarity—an everyday _I love you._

“Don’t you wanna put on a robe or something, Buck?” Steve says, eventually, his mouth turned up in a little smirk. He flicks his eyes over Bucky briefly, enjoying the scene. Bucky’s body was just one of the many things Steve loved about the guy. Not the only thing. Far from it. But it was up there.

“Nope,” Bucky says, taking in a big bite of egg—sunny-side up with warm, runny yolks. Just like how he likes them.

Steve snorts. “Well, I guess there’s no convincing you otherwise on anything then, huh. Joke’s on you, I’m the one with the great view.”

“Damn _right_ ,” Bucky says, with a pointed _crunch_ of his toast.

“Oh,” Steve says, putting down his fork, “That reminds me. We’ve gotta get going after this, gotta pick up your suit.”

Bucky blinks at Steve, toast half-hanging from his mouth. “My suit—which? The fancy one? With the lapels?”

“Yeah, that one. I got it dry-cleaned.”

That doesn’t seem to answer Bucky’s question. “Why?”

“For tonight,” Steve replies, before taking a sip of his coffee.

Bucky furrows his brow, looking confused. “What’s going on tonight? I forget something important? Please don’t tell me you signed me up for a charity ball on my _birthday._ Please. I’ll go back into cryo before I do that. I will. You won’t be able to stop me.”

Steve tenses at that self-depreciating joke, just for a second, but he smiles around his mug, eventually. Everyone coped differently, one of his therapists had told him. That was Bucky’s way. As long as it wasn't hurting anyone, there was nothing wrong with it, as difficult as it was for Steve to get used to it.

“Nah. I’d only do that if you pissed me off _real bad,_ ” Steve says, and that wins a smile from Bucky. Good. “No, I’m—uh. I’m taking you to dinner. It’s a real nice place uptown. Pepper recommended it. I think you’ll like it. Booked out the whole place just for us, so it’s gonna be nice and private. No threats of reporters or paparazzi or anything.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, looking touched; looking like Steve had somehow booked all of Times Square for two. “You didn’t have to. You could’ve just taken me to Coney Island and bought me a cone. Really. You didn’t—don’t think you still have to go outta your way to impress me.”

“Buck. Come on. It’s your hundredth. I’ll take you out to Coney Island and buy you ice cream and funnel cake and win you the biggest Bucky Bear you’ve ever laid your eyes on tomorrow,” Steve says, “But tonight’s your hundredth. We should do something special.”

Bucky’s gaze is unwavering but unreadable, and Steve, for the first time, realizes he might have overstepped his boundaries; he might have, in an attempt to be a good boyfriend, forced Bucky into a situation he didn't have an out of; into something he didn’t quite want to do. A moment of panic rushes Steve like high tide, and he adds a caveat, quickly as the words will come out of his mouth.

“I—I mean. If it doesn’t sound good, if you don’t want to, if you—if you really don’t want to, we don’t have to. Or we could just pop in and leave. I just—I thought it’d be a nice—I thought it’d be a good surprise.“

“No, no,” Bucky says, cupping Steve’s face in his hands, “This is fine. I want to. It’s just—it’s a lot. I’m—you know. Still trying to get used to the whole— _'nice things'_ thing. Thank you, Steve. It’s real sweet.”

“Hey, it’s nothing, Buck. Really. And if you don't want to go, you don't have to. I mean it. It's for you,” Steve says, leaning into Bucky’s touch, sighing softly. _Anything for you._

They pull away, slowly, but that serious intimacy is still there. They’re both silent, just watching each other, looking at one another, still, somehow, in awe of _this thing they had._

“Plus,” Steve says, finally breaking the silence. He breaks away from Bucky’s intense gaze, just for a second, slicing a fluffy stack of pancakes into a perfect, pillowy pillar, “I get to see you dressed up. This dinner’s a gift, but I never said there wasn’t something in it for _me_.”

“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky says, but from the way he smiles, from the way he looks at Steve, it’s clear that he’s saying it with love.

**\---**

No matter how many times Steve has—or will—see Bucky dressed to the nines, he finds himself stunned breathless each time.

They arrive at the restaurant at seven on the dot; not a minute earlier, not a minute later. It’s an odd sight—the two of them, suits and all—pulling up to the back alley of a five-star restaurant on Bucky’s sleek black Harley. But they wouldn’t—couldn't—have it any other way. The rush of adrenaline, the almost-intimacy, the way Steve gets to wrap his arms around Bucky’s tight core—Steve wouldn’t give it up for anything.

"How's my hair?" Bucky asks, as he tucks his helmet under his arm. He’s trying hard to sound nonchalant, but Steve knows better. Bucky cares about how he looks. Always has, even in the aftermath of what was done to him. Things just took precedence. But now—as much as he cares not to care—Steve knows.

“Perfect. Wait—” Steve says, before tucking a stray strand behind Bucky’s ear, just like he’d seen Winifred Barnes do, all those years ago. “Now. Now it’s perfect.”

Bucky grins, and _God,_ is it dazzling. “Great. Shall we?"

Steve nods. His own helmet in his left hand, Steve takes Bucky's outstretched palm with his right. “Let’s go.”

He trails behind Bucky, letting him lead the way. It gives Bucky a chance for agency; a chance to scope out where he wants to be, even with the restaurant devoid of customers, save for two. But it also gives Steve a chance to admire Bucky in that well-tailored suit of his—those broad, sturdy shoulders, the ratio between Bucky's shoulders and his waist, his thick, fantastic thighs. Before the fall, before either of their serums, Bucky was boyishly handsome; all Old Hollywood glamor with the mouth of a sailor. Now, though—he’s something else, all that handsome with so much more, something Steve couldn’t _begin_ to describe. The closest thing he could use, the closest thing that comes even remotely close to how he feels about Bucky, is _perfect_. For Steve, in every sense of the word, Bucky is perfect.

They slide into a booth close to the midpoint of the restaurant, secluded enough from any staff thinking they can pry, but close enough to both exits. Just in case. Bucky pulls off his black leather gloves—partially as grips for the ride over, partially to hide the arm—and sets them next to his helmet. A waiter is over in what feels like seconds, and within minutes of his initial departure, is back with their drinks, done up perfectly.

People were willing to go above and beyond to impress living legends. Steve isn’t entirely sure how much he likes it.

Just as he chews over that thought, through a sip of Cognac, Bucky motions to Steve—leaning in close, as if to share a secret. Powerless, Steve obliges. “Rogers.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, his eyes flicking from Bucky’s eyes, to his lips, to his chest, his gaze lingering just a moment too long before he looks Bucky in the face again.

“Were you—” Bucky starts, breaking out into a slow smirk. He noticed—there was no way he _didn’t notice._ “Were you staring at my chest?”

Steve huffs. A chuckle. “I—uh. I’d like to take the fifth on that, your honor.”

“Unbelievable,” Bucky says, still smiling, as he takes a sip of his Jack and Coke. Steve doesn’t believe him when he says he likes the taste. “On my _birthday,_ of all days. That’s a goddamn shame, Rogers. A goddamn shame.”

“Hey, take it as a compliment. You look good for your age. Barely a day over ninety.”

“Fuckin’ punk,” Bucky laughs, shaking his head. Neither of them can get drunk, and Steve’s only _barely_ touched his Cognac, but he feels a warmth bubbling under his skin, anyway—the rough equivalent of a buzz, something only revealed when someone finds _their Person._ Steve could count himself lucky, knowing he'd had him all along. 

"What were you going to ask, before that?” he asks, curious.

“It’s not better,” Bucky snorts.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Was gonna ask if you were checking out my ass earlier.”

"Really?”

“Yeah," Bucky says, and Steve can't tell if he's telling the truth, or if he's _absolutely full of shit_. Bucky has a poker face rivaled only by certain ally superspies. "I was.”

“Oh, well,” Steve says, with a shrug, “Answer still stands.”

Dinner comes out not long after that. Steaks for both of them—barely-medium for Steve; for Bucky, rare and bloody. The cuts are thick, high-quality, and decadent, something far beyond what either of them could have ever imagined eating growing up. Steve never got used to eating steak; he was twenty-three the first time he ever had one, tough and mealy as it was. He wonders if Bucky remembers if he’d ever had steak, before the new century, before the war. He doesn’t pry, all the same.

They order coffee for dessert. No cake, no pie, just two cups of coffee: half-and-half for Steve, two sugars and milk for Bucky. Anything more would be too decadent. Coffee and comfortable conversation is more than enough.

Deep into dinner, Bucky leans back, resting his arms against the back of the booth, like a bird of prey stretching out his wingspan. His coffee cup, all but empty, hangs lazily in his grip. Steve can’t help but lovingly pore over him, sweeping his gaze along Bucky’s broad form, drinking in every bit of him, as if by the next sunup, he’ll be gone again. It’s as he’s taking in Bucky that he notices it—a small, almost-insubstantial detail that, once discovered, Steve absolutely hyperfocuses on.

With his arms thrown back and his chest pushed slightly forward, the buttons on Bucky’s shirt, Steve notices, are only _barely_ keeping it together.

In the space between each button, there are exposed gaps; little peeks of skin where those poor, strained shirt buttons are clearly being stretched to their limit. When Bucky sits properly, the shirt is tight, but acceptable. It offered a hint to the bulk hidden under cotton and lapels, without giving away too much. 

But when he leans back, like this, when he lets himself loose—it becomes _obscene._ It’s a miracle one of those buttons haven’t popped off. Steve is halfway expecting one to—halfway _hoping_ for one to. Bucky hardly seems to notice, continuing to lounge about like a cat in the sun, but Steve does. Steve _does._

“You alright?” Bucky asks eventually, eyeing Steve, cool and careful. His face is kind, even inviting, but Steve knows better. There are a million calculations running in his mind by the minute. Bucky didn’t get to be the world’s deadliest sniper on eyesight alone.

“Yeah,” Steve—world’s worst poker face, seventy years running—says. He swallows, trying not to stare. “Yeah. I’m uh—I’m good.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, his lips quirked up in a little smirk. "Are you?"

Steve nods, swallowing under Bucky’s gaze.

"Good to hear it," Bucky says, his eyes clearly raking over Steve. There’s implication in his words, in the low drop of his tone. "Hey. We've been here a while. Why don't I take us home?"

That, Steve thinks, is the best idea either of them have had all night. 

Bucky is pulling on those sleek leather gloves as Steve closes their check—leaving a hefty tip for all the trouble. Soon, as if in a rush, they're both out the back door, having thanked the chef and all the staff for their work. Bucky has his helmet on, and Steve snaps on his own—nothing like his uniform’s helmet, but far more comfortable and just as familiar. They cut through the night like a razor, zipping through familiar streets at heart-pounding speeds. Bucky’s turns are sharp and surgical, and Steve feels his heart thumming wild against his chest. Riding with Bucky is wild; he's a rush.

And if he ends up maybe, possibly, copping a feel, Steve doesn’t see Bucky react.

**\---**

“You’re funny, Rogers,” Bucky says, once they’re home, back in their apartment late into the night. He pulls off his gloves, then shrugs off his jacket, carefully hanging it up on their coat rack. That tight button-up shifts as Bucky moves, and _oh_ —Steve’s breath stops. The thin white cotton can hardly fit over Bucky’s bulk, stretching tight against his huge biceps and thick, broad chest. It's not just the buttons straining, it's the whole thing. Steve flicks his gaze from Bucky’s eyes, to his chest, to his plush, red lips. He swallows hard, his mind suddenly swimming.

“Yeah?” Steve asks. It’s all he _can._

“Yeah. You were staring. And bad at lying about it,” Bucky says. He shifts to pull his bun out, shaking his hair loose. Steve is fully aware Bucky is watching him, bemused and catlike. Steve feels like prey. Somehow, it doesn’t bother him. Not if he can watch the way Bucky fills out that dress shirt, damn-near skintight around his biceps and chest.

“Am I?” Steve murmurs, and it’s not a question. Bucky pulls Steve in by the hips, closing that distance in between them, pressing them close. It’s not until they’re both on the couch that Steve realizes Bucky was guiding him—it’s not until they bump knees that Steve realizes he let himself be led.

“You are,” Bucky replies, “Really, really bad.”

“Oh,” Steve says, already feeling his body go into an all-over blush—not because what Bucky is saying is embarrassing. That's a known truth. But because Bucky's voice is low and they're close. Because of the tension in the air; the palpable heat of what will come next.

“Mm. Hey. Wanna see something cool?” Bucky asks, and the words barely process in Steve’s brain; he’s too lost in Bucky—in his eyes, in his touch, in his goddamn chest. Not for the first time, Steve realizes how lucky S.H.I.E.L.D. is that Bucky never trained in the hard spy stuff. Not for the first time, Steve’s grateful that Bucky is on _his_ side.

“I—uh—“ Steve starts, blinking. “Yeah. Sure, Buck.”

“Watch,” says Bucky, a sharp, unbreakable command. As if Steve could possibly look away.

Bucky squares his shoulders, sitting up ramrod-straight. For a moment, he looks focused—lost in concentration, or warming himself up, maybe—before snapping forward, flexing his chest, sending the top few buttons flying. He heaves out a heavy breath, his shirt ruined and chest bare, and presses his pecs together, grinning up at Steve, expectant and preening. 

"Holy shit," Steve breathes, and all he can think of is getting his hands on Bucky. His mouth feels dry, and it might be dark, they might both be lit up only by the dimming lights of the city coming in through their windows, but even still, Steve _knows_ —that need, that aching, all-consuming want—can be seen clear on his face from a mile away. He can tell just from how Bucky smiles at him, wolfish. _Hungry._

“There’s lube in the drawer,” Bucky says, in the same tone usually reserved for _get over here_ and _inside of me._ His hands are suddenly all over Steve, trailing up his thighs, squeezing the bulge in his pants with the slightest touch—just the way he knows drives Steve wild. It earns a little noise from him, a sharp, breathy, wordless _yes_.

“Don’t you want to, instead—I mean—it’s your birthday,” Steve starts, as Bucky unbuttons Steve’s fly. He shoots a look up at Steve, heavy and lusty and _defiant._

“It’s _my_ birthday, Rogers,” Bucky says, taking Steve’s dick—already painfully hard—out of his pants, “I’ll do what I damn well please. Now, do you wanna fuck my tits, or what?”

“God, that fucking _mouth_ on you,” Steve almost whispers, pulling Bucky into a sloppy, desperate kiss. He can taste the night’s coffee on Bucky, sweet and bitter, all at the same time. When they pull away, when they, ever-briefly, break apart, Steve goes straight for their end-table drawer, nearly destroying it in the rush. For his part, Bucky looks completely fine, leaning back onto the couch and grinning like a jackal, his dick out and those pecs pressed together, perfect and inviting.

“Sure you want this?” Steve asks, dripping lube onto Bucky’s chest, thick and slow.

“Think I would’ve ruined a nice dress shirt if I didn’t?” Bucky asks, watching Steve carefully. “I want this, Steve. Don’t know how many times I’ve gotta say it.”

“Alright,” Steve says, as he caps the lube up again, tossing it carelessly to the side. “Alright.”

Looking down at Bucky, chest heaving and plush mouth parted, makes Steve’s brain short-circuit. All his coherent thoughts and words are gone. All he can focus on is _Bucky._ With both hands, Steve begins to play with Bucky’s chest, groping and kneading, like he'd desperately wanted to do all night. Slowly, in wide, languid circles, Steve spreads the lube around Bucky's chest, massaging the thick muscle. And Bucky just watches, chest heaving in anticipation, flicking his gaze from Steve’s hands, to his face, ready and eager for what they have primed to do—for what comes next.

“Like that?” Steve asks, tweaking one of Bucky’s nipples, toying with his chest, completely engrossed in Bucky. That earns a little hiss, a noise of pleasure. Bucky nods, breathing heavy and full of want.

“Yeah,” Bucky answers, his voice a low murmur. It shoots straight to Steve’s dick. "Feels good."

“You ready?” Steve asks, shifting to straddle Bucky’s chest, his dick resting on Bucky's sternum, pre-cum beading at the tip.

“Since the moment we left that restaurant,” Bucky says, and he pushes his pecs together, ready and willing and, Steve realizes, _completely in control._

Steve slots his dick between Bucky’s pecs, and breathes, low and heavy, as he begins to move. Anchoring both hands on the armrest, Steve thrusts, slow and steady, exploring this new ground, finding a rhythm. Bucky’s tight, even here, and the feeling of _new_ and _tight_ and _good_ shoot off all the right sparks Steve's brain.

And Bucky— _God, Bucky—_ takes Steve’s dick in his mouth when he can, ducking his chin low and chasing Steve’s dick with that gorgeous, pink mouth. It's filthy. It's obscene. It drives Steve wild.

“Bucky—“ he breathes. Bucky runs his tongue along the underside of the tip of Steve’s dick as he continues to thrust, and Steve whines, feeling himself edging ever-close to release. Bucky’s chest is all hard muscle and soft skin, and it feels so, so right—and when he catches Steve’s dick, briefly, when he wraps his plush, perfect lips around Steve’s aching cock, it’s all over. With one last thrust, Steve shoots all over Bucky’s chest and face, his whole body shuddering, and he moans, soft and low.

"Fuck,“ Bucky hisses. He’s smirking, and his chin is tilted up, pugnacious and cocky. There’s a thick streak of cum across his face, but Bucky wears it like a badge of honor. “Jesus fuck, Stevie.”

Steve is spent, completely wrecked from fucking Bucky's pecs, from trying something new—but Bucky is still hard, his dick leaking pre-cum against his stomach. His hands now free, he moves to touch himself, to get himself off. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve notices this. He meets Bucky's gaze and stops him, gently taking Bucky’s left hand in his.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, shifting, positioning himself low on the couch, nuzzling Bucky’s inner thigh, “Lemme take care of you.”

Bucky looks over him carefully, wordlessly, for a moment. As if trying to piece together Steve's intentions, as if trying to determine if what he's hearing and seeing are real. He nods, briefly, squeezing Steve's hand. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

With that, Steve wastes no time, leaving a trail of sharp, gentle nips on Bucky’s inner thighs. They won’t bruise, especially not with the serum—but the noises Bucky makes are enough. Steve nuzzles against Bucky’s dick, lovingly, fondly, their fingers still hooked together. Loosely, barely, but interlaced, entwined, nonetheless.

Steve licks a long stripe along Bucky’s shaft, and Bucky shifts, as if on instinct. He breathes—a low _oh_ —as Steve continues to lick at his big, gorgeous dick. Licking up his shaft just one more time, Steve guides Bucky’s left hand to the base of his skull, and slowly, like a kiss, brings the tip of Bucky’s dick into his mouth. He wonders, idly, if Bucky will pull his hair. Deep down, Steve hopes he will. 

“Goddamn, Steve," Bucky moans, trailing his hand from Steve's skull to his cheek, grazing the spot where he's got Bucky's dick in his mouth. "God _damn_.”

That’s motivation enough for Steve. He bobs his head, taking Bucky deeper and deeper into his mouth with each thrust. Bucky is big, thicker and longer than anyone else Steve’s ever been with before, and he loves it. Steve loves all of it—the challenge, the passion, the way Bucky fills him up the way no one else could. He loves the way Bucky leaves him raw and spent and in complete _bliss_.

He's lucky to have him. He's so goddamn lucky to have him.

Steve takes Bucky down more and more, moaning at how Bucky feels, heavy and hard against the back of his throat. This earns Steve a little tug through his hair—gentle, but desperate, right on the edge—and little noises from Bucky. Steve can tell Bucky is close, and he takes Bucky’s balls in his hand, rubbing slow, gentle circles with his thumb, squeezing them gently, as he continues to go down on him. That earns him a little twitch, a flick of Bucky’s hips, and with his free hand, Steve grips Bucky’s thigh, taking him in _deep._ Down to the hilt.

" _Fuck—_ “ Bucky moans, low, _guttural,_ almost, and jerks his hips against Steve’s mouth, and he’s gone. He’s completely gone, shooting off into Steve’s mouth, hot and sticky. Steve swallows Bucky’s load like a champ, mouthing Bucky's dick just a few seconds longer, before pulling off with a slick _pop_.

“Happy birthday, Buck,” Steve murmurs, his voice haggard and rough. It'll be like that for days afterwards, he thinks, excitedly.

He sits up, wiping his mouth, just on instinct, and takes Bucky in, eyes half-lidded and mouth parted. He's all but glowing. If there weren't evidence to the contrary, Steve would think he'd been blessed. But the evidence to the contrary is _substantial_. They’re both a complete mess—Bucky’s shirt is a complete lost cause, between the buttons and the lube, and Steve’s hair has definitely seen better days. It's going to be a lot to clean up. But Bucky just smiles at Steve, finally catching a chance to breathe, between the blowjob and Steve fucking his chest. When he catches that smile, that brilliant grin, Steve feels like first witness to the sun. Maybe he'd been blessed, after all.

“It’s a damn good birthday,” Bucky says. As much as Steve would love to sit there and watch Bucky all night, he can't leave him like that, all debauched and filthy—so he moves to get a towel, the closest one he can find. It's a fancy, plush one from the guest bathroom, one they picked out specifically to impress any guests. They'll have to get a new one. Can’t go back there anymore, no matter how much it’s washed.

“Pretty good for your age, Barnes,” Steve jokes, tossing the towel at Bucky’s face. He sits up, cleaning his face and chest. “Most guys at a hundred? Probably couldn’t even get it up.”

“Thanks to your wandering eyes and that pretty mouth of ours,” Bucky laughs, pecking Steve, just gently. Just once. But it was more than enough.

“Keep wearing shirts that tight, and you’ll get a lot more of that,” Steve says, and he’s already admiring Bucky’s bulk again. He can’t help it.

“Think I will, Rogers,” Bucky says, and the way he’s grinning, Steve can tell he means it. And that’s _dangerous._

“Good,” Steve says, “One more thing, real quick.”

“Shoot,” Bucky replies, pulling his ruined button-up off and tossing it to the side.

“Can we do this again? For my birthday?”

Bucky shoots him a look.

“What makes you think I wanna wait that long?”

And that, Steve thinks, is a promise for the weekend ahead—for the rest of Bucky’s birthday plans. Not for Coney Island or for art museums or for exploring the city, but nonetheless, for a birthday for the books.

A century old or not, Bucky sure knew how to treat himself to a good time.

**Author's Note:**

> here are more relevant [beefy bucky/sebastian stan links](http://phoenixgryphon.tumblr.com/post/158252826828/blatinx-its-buckys-birthday) for your entertainment. [this one, in particular inspired this fic](https://68.media.tumblr.com/c02532dd1d571ee96eccadac4ec20bce/tumblr_messaging_oikh454jBV1rlwjvk_250.gif).
> 
> happy hundredth, big guy.


End file.
